


Night Birds

by Stidean



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Future Character Death, M/M, Major Character Injury, Martin Crieff Whump, Martin Crieff Whump Background, Violence, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stidean/pseuds/Stidean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin is approached by a handsome stranger at the airport bar, and while he finds his attention flattering, the stranger has a different purpose in mind.</p><p>"What would you give for the opportunity to fly?"</p><p>And Martin, though he can't believe it himself, accepts Sherlock's proposition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Birds

**Author's Note:**

> Fair Warning!  
> This is the first chapter of a MUCH larger work I want to write but not post until it is finished, when I would post it in regualr intervals. This will not be a WiP, as I have most of the story written in my head and all the major plot points mapped out. This first chapter is a beta-test. Just to see what the reaction is, if there's even a reaction at all.
> 
> Now, first and foremost, the Martin in this story is different in quite a few ways from canon Martin. Yes, canon Martin is an adorable and bumbling character, but I have made him into something more, in this story. I have given him some more courage and certain coping capabilities that come out when under pressure. He's not so helpless or so incapable. As my friend pointed out to me, "Martin can't even handle a goose up a tree, how is he going to handle a weapon without blowing his own head off?", and she is quite right.
> 
> Secondly, this is a wingfic. However, there is a detail I don't want to reveal because it will ruin the surprise later on, but I will say that this fic won't take the same path many other wingfics take.
> 
> Thirdly, though I have put in the tags many characters and relationships which obviously do not appear here, they will in the finished work, of course.
> 
> Also, "Inner Monologue" Martin is MUCH more eloquent than "Conversation" Martin :P, so please excuse me if they sound like two different people.
> 
> And lastly, I just want people to enjoy this. I'm trying to build a world here with some authenticity, and I just hope it is enjoyable as well. 
> 
> Anywho, if you managed to read through this without being put off, have a crack at the story.

Chapter 1 – Foreign, Yellow Skies

 

I wasn’t always a colossal failure.

 

At one point in my life I was thought to be a shoo-in for early Olympic teams. A ‘hopeful’ as they call it. My father, who was used to my failings and had long before transferred any hope of family glory, or distinction, to my siblings, was over the moon to discover his graceless son had finally put aside his childish notions of flying and shirked his delusions regarding admittance into flight school, deciding instead, to focus his energy on something that he himself deemed worthy. Well, I say over the moon; I mean it, of course, by his standards.

 

Ironic, considering the origin of those accomplishments.

 

It all started quite innocently: cliff-diving in south Wales while on our family holiday. I was almost 13 years old. The first jump, as is almost always the case when it comes to taking any action which requires courage on my part, happened through no decision of mine whatsoever. I was pushed by my brother, Simon. He was so happy to humiliate me at every opportunity, that I cannot think why I still trusted him not to throw me off a cliff just to get a good laugh out of it. Luckily, I had my earplugs in, and so swimming to shore would have proved an easy enough task. Even so, I was terrified on my way down. I felt as if my heart would leap out of my chest and touch the water before I myself would break the surface. And yet, by the time I had hit the water, I was already gathering my strength to make my way back up and jump again. And then again, and then again, and again until my limbs were numb from exertion and my father was on the point of sedating me just so he would be able to peacefully carry me back that evening, to the musty B&B we were staying at. Simon, however, started to become morose by my third jump. I was not supposed to enjoy it, and certainly not meant to repeat the pleasure, moreover, when it came time for him to make the same daring leap, he said it was boring and backed down, severely hurting his chances with a girl he met while we were there, and whom he was very much keen to impress. I should have enjoyed his cowardice and subsequent rejection by the girl, but… I was too busy flying.

 

That night, in bed, the sun was shining within me; imprinted on my skin but cooled by ocean waters, I had absorbed it into me. I had made it a part of me by sheer will alone. It burst through my veins and made the blood pump quicker, as my body felt like it was rocking back and forth in water, the same sensation everyone feels when a day is spent swimming. I had discovered that falling was just like flying. I had found a way around all the restrictions. I had found a cheat. I could now fly. I’m sure no one else saw it the same way, and I was more than glad to keep it to myself, fearing I would be discouraged by my father yet again, or ridiculed for my pains by my siblings.

 

Of course, back then, during those early efforts, I was in no way interested in form and style. All I wanted was the fall, with the air rushing through me. I still saw myself as graceless as ever and did not expect that feature of my personality to change in any way, simply because I had found pleasure in an activity that would demand grace and beauty of movement, were I to seek to continue doing it professionally. The next two days were spent jumping, from the moment I made it to the beachfront till I was dragged back exhausted. On the first day my father appeared curious by my preferred activity, which I had taken up instead of the family outings he and my mother had planned for us. But by the third day he was getting annoyed, as he was naturally suspicious of anything I took a growing interest in, and wondering how it could be turned to flight by me. He didn’t mention it at first, while we were making our way back home at the end of the holiday, with all three of us kids stuffed in the back seat, as he and my mom argued over the map.

 

“Well there’s not much I can do about it, Cecil. We’re under the map’s staples, and that’s that.” Which was my mother’s way of ending the argument. My father agreed to let the matter rest, indicated to us by grumbling to himself under his moustache and letting the matter drop. After an hour or so into the drive, in which, he no doubt, considered the best way to approach the subject, Dad said in his deep, gravelly voice:

 

“We didn’t see much of you during the trip, Martin.” I didn’t answer right away because I wasn’t sure I heard my name at the end of the sentence. Dad rarely spoke to us beyond the simple ‘do this, don’t do that’, especially when it came to me.

 

“Hm? What? I’m sorry, did you say something, daddy?”

 

“I said we didn’t see much of you during the holiday. What was it you were doing all day? Throwing yourself off a cliff?” He smiled awkwardly.

 

“Yes, daddy. I was diving. Simon taught me how.” At this, Simon turned to me, as if to warn me to keep to myself the circumstance regarding my first jump.

 

“Really? That was nice of him. And did you enjoy it?” He was being cautious, but so was I.

 

“It was great; so much fun.” No need to mention anything else. He pondered for a few minutes.

 

“Well, Martin, if you really enjoyed it so much, maybe we can look into getting you into a diving team when we get back home. Who knows? Maybe you have some talent for it. What do you think Wendy?”

 

“Sounds like a wonderful idea, dear. Martin seems to have found something he enjoys, and it's all thanks to Simon.” My mother exclaimed, contentedly.

 

And that was it. I calmed down considerably after this tiny chat. I realized my father had no inklings regarding the root of my enjoyment, and I had, for the first time in my life, his encouragement in an activity I seemed to enjoy.

 

What was even more incredible about this new endeavour was how good I was at diving. Without making any effort at all I appeared to gain the grace in the air which I seemed to lack on the ground. Back then, in my bedroom, there were hardly any objects which had not been bumped into, dropped or damaged by having me clumsily dislodge them from their place; but in the air I was a sight to behold. I grew in confidence and even gained some of my peers’ positive attention at school, and I was finally noticed for the first time and even attracted my first girlfriend. Usually, I was so insignificant I was almost not worth bullying… almost.

 

By the age of 15, however, things had changed. Yes, falling was **like** flying. But it wasn’t **actually** flying. It ends. The experience ends whether you want it to or not. It is abruptly and rudely ended by a cold and violent plunge. That single and damaging thought took root and marred the whole experience of diving to such an extent, that I could not endure it any longer. My enjoyment of it rotted away like a canker and left nothing behind my former excitement but browned apple’s flesh. And yet I was trapped. I had my father’s approval and encouragement, my mother’s attention, my brother’s grudging respect and even my sister’s admiration; all things I could not easily give up. I felt worse about letting them down than about my own disappointment at finding out how far I was from replacing flight by other means. And so, competition followed competition; award followed award; accolade followed accolade; and for six months, I was trapped in a ‘Golden Predicament’. I was accomplished in a field I had no desire to be accomplished in.

 

But as “luck” would have it, our city’s diving team was invited to attend a swimming competition in London, to make a diving exhibition before the matches started. A boy died, drowned; Carl something. He just stopped, mid stroke. The whole event shut down, panic took over, some of the attendees thinking there was something wrong within the water. Others, more malicious, thought it was playacting by the boy, since he was known to be of a somewhat vicious character and was, in their minds, at least, not above causing mass panic just for his own amusement. I came back home to a lot of fussing and coddling from my mother and a stern silence from my father, who was far from comfortable with the subject of death, having been orphaned as a child, and even far less comfortable with the idea of talking about anything that either stemmed or evoked powerful emotions.

 

I spent three days in my room, with my mother leaving me trays laden with comfort food (Simon’s choice of comfort food, rather than mine) outside my door for me to feed myself on, as I was only leaving my room to use the loo. I will admit that the first day I spent locked away, did have something to do with the horrible shock I had endured, but the rest of the time was more for my family’s benefit, to convince them that me giving up diving had more to do with that day’s horrible and tragic events, and less, or rather none at all, to do with my disillusionment at finding diving a poor substitute for what I really wanted out of life.

 

It didn’t work, though. My father’s distance grew even further than before, I suspect because his aspirations for my brilliant Olympic career had been dashed completely, and after expecting so very little of me throughout all those years, it was a blow too hard for our, almost nonexistent, relationship, to bear. I think he was happy to be given the chance to be proud of me at long last, and when I took that away… How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child; but far more wounding is a child that is unwilling or incapable to live up to his parent’s expectations. The dynamics of sibling derision quickly returned as well, along with my father’s distance (or perhaps encouraged by it), as if the last two years or so, had been no more than a bleep on the radar.

 

“And so… and so we come up to date of all I already told you and what you, somehow, guessed.

 

“I never guess.”

 

“If you say so. Where was I? Oh, right. My father dies and he leaves me his beaten-up van; I fail again and again to become a licensed pilot, only to succeed on try number seven; my horrible attic; my man-with-a-van career that keeps me alive; Caroline taking pity on me and “allowing” me to fly her lunchbox-with-wings, for no money; Douglas building and destroying my confidence regularly; Theresa and my last and final attempt at being straight; Swiss-Air realizing they had made a huge mistake; and last, but certainly not least, MJN finally folding leaving me with nothing…” The stranger remained silent for a few seconds.

 

“And that’s why you’re here, wearing that outfit? Scaring random passengers who are seeing a man in a captain’s uniform, drinking just before, what they all assume to be, in their paranoid minds, their own flights.”

 

“I just… I can’t stay away.” I blurted, almost in a sob.

 

“You are maudlin drunk.” The stranger stated simply, without any malice. The same handsome man who had been seated next to me for the better part of an hour, and had done the same during my last three visits to this place, as he listened to me slur my way through my life story. Each time I met him, he had been reading from the same magazine; 'Heat': that preposterous repository for human degradation and shame. It was the same issue each time, actually: February, 2012. It had an odd article on the front, with a hazy cellphone image which was taken at the "scene". The photo was of a white blur carrying a darker blur, up and away from a building's roof, with the capitalized words: "BIRD-MAN SAVES DISTRESSED WOMAN, SECONDS AFTER HER SUICIDE ATTEMPT… AND THEY ARE NOW PLANNING TO GET MARRIED!" I averted my eyes, that first time he sat next to me, feeling ashamed about reading that ridiculous headline, even though the magazine was being read by someone else. By this, the third time, I had read enough of the article appearing on the cover, which continued on in the pages inside, to know that a man, with “wings made of light”, had flown to the rescue of a woman who had thrown herself off of St. Thomas hospital, in London, caught her half way down through her fall, and flew up towards the top of the building and out of sight. I could not think what a man, who seemed so distinguished, was doing with such degrading reading material. As he did during the other times when he had engaged me in conversation, he put the magazine aside and listened intently. This time was no different.

 

“How did you know, that… that first time you sat next to me, that I was a real captain and not just some faker in a Halloween costume, trying to get free Airport bar drinks?” It was the question that had been bothering me the most, though I slurred it out a little bit.

 

“Your thumb; the left one, to be precise."

 

"What?"

 

"It doesn’t matter.”

 

“My…” I began to look stupidly at my left thumb, though I could barely focus my eyes by this point.

 

“Answer me this, Martin. Why is flying so important to you?”

 

“I can’t tell you.” I answered without giving it a thought, since this was not the first time I had been asked this question, mostly by my father. “I don’t know. I have asked myself the same question again and again, and by 27 I realized it didn’t matter. It’s just important to me.” And it is. “It’s just what I have to do. What I need to do.”

 

“What would you give for the opportunity to fly? I mean, really fly? No machinery, no restrictions.” I looked at him for a while. Images came to my mind of myself in a little plane costume I made out of cardboard I painted metallic-blue, when I was 6. It took me a whole day to get them just right and I was so proud, yelling at the top of my lungs as I made to swoop down the park's grassy hillocks and rode the swing to feel the wind whoosh by, trying to balance my weight properly so I wouldn't fall off, because I couldn't hold on to the swing itself, as I had my arms outstretched away from me. I was so simply happy. It was the same day when I realized how unfeasible my expectations about becoming a plane were. Realizations which were helped along by my brother stepping on the wings, breaking them and fracturing my arm, as he yelled a heartbreaking ‘You can’t be a plane, Martin! People can’t be planes!’

 

“What… what are you saying to me?” I finally answered. The stranger pulled out a postcard with ‘Landscape with the Fall of Icarus’ on the front, and what I assumed was his phone number on the back, and dropped it on top of the magazine he had nudged towards me as I was thinking over his question. I stared hard at the printed postcard for a few minutes, while he left with a ‘If you are willing to give up everything else but your desire to fly, use that number’. All this time he had spent with me, was he an army recruiter? If he is, they’ve gotten daintier than I remember. There was no ‘Be all you can be!’ crap about him, like there was the last time I met with recruiters. Even during wartime they weren’t desperate enough to recruit me as a combat pilot. Why would they change their minds now? And what kind of recruiter doesn’t wear a uniform? That’s just dishonest…

 

I stumbled in the rain towards ‘home’ and made my way up the stairs, knocking down some hallway fixtures such as hanging pictures… a lamp… The, um, pot plant…

 

“Ah… home, sweet… whatever…” I said to no one as I entered the attic. Like routine, I took off my soggy attire, chucked it aside (some landed on the floor, some on the chair), opened the skylight (the one redeeming feature in my bleak and rented surroundings) and flopped down on the futon to listen to the rain and the passing planes, their distant whistling through the air, more comforting to me than anything else.

 

I long ago made a game of it, recognizing each one as their sound came within earshot. I particularly enjoyed doing this while it was raining. Sometimes drops landed at just the right angle on the window frame and wet my face with cool water. Not enough to soak anything, but enough to make me feel alive. And yet, I couldn’t focus on the task today. Then my drunken mind remembered why. I lunged forward from my lying position, banged my head against the metal frame of the skylight, cursed lightly and, with my hand rubbing my soon-to-be bruised forehead, I stumbled towards my shirt which was hanging haphazardly on the chair next to my small dining table and dug into its’ front pocket to find the postcard. It was almost waterlogged, the rain had been so heavy. The magazine I had rolled up, which protected it from the worse of the rain, but I feared the ink on the postcard would run or smudge and become unintelligible, so I frantically looked for a pen to write the number down before it washed away and disappeared. Biro in hand, I simply wrote the number down right on the surface of the small table I kept my phone on, instead of the magazine cover, since, though it was only slightly wet, I did not trust for the damp paper to hold the ink well enough to be legible tomorrow morning, especially considering how difficult I found writing the number down at all. Panic averted, I returned to my futon and quickly fell asleep.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

You wake up, you wash, you have breakfast, you haul boxes, you drive, haul the same boxes, get offered a tip, drive back home, make the tea, wash again, go to bed.

You wake up, you wash, you have breakfast, you haul boxes, you drive, haul the same boxes, get offered a tip, drive back home, make the tea, wash again, go to bed.

You wake up, you wash, you have breakfast, you haul boxes, you drive, haul the same boxes, get offered……… you take the money, drive back home crying, wash again, make the tea, wash again a third time, go to bed…

 

It wasn’t until 5 days later that I finally noticed the number scribbled on the small table, and the magazine lying at the foot of it. Then the conversation rushed back all at once: The airport bar, the crummy tasting booze (‘which was **NOT** free’), the curly-and-dark-haired, regal looking stranger, taking the seat next to me again, his piercing questions (‘No… They weren’t questions; they were statements… accurate ones’), my ridiculous and continued emotional unloading, the postcard, ‘Be all you can be!’… no. No, he didn’t say that. Not an army recruiter. What was it…? ‘If you are willing to give up everything but flying, phone me’, or something. I found the postcard under the futon, probably kicked there by me, or the landlord on one of his expeditions into my room (it almost seemed like he does it just so I know he **CAN** ), and was left there unseen till the next evening when I laid the futon on it. The ink left a smudge on the underside of the futon’s soft, white cotton, but I was beyond caring at this point.

 

I was looking at the printing on the postcard: the image of Icarus, flailing about, his father nowhere in sight, no focus drawn towards him or his plight. He’s just there… in the corner. No attention given to him by neither the painter nor the other protagonists within the painting. He’s ignored; left to his own devices. I began to feel angry. Well and truly angry. Angry at Mom and Dad, angry at my siblings, at my childhood, at Caroline and her unwillingness to provide me with a tiny salary to take a bit of the pressure off me, at Douglas for destroying my confidence whenever he was bored, at Arthur for being stupid, and, finally, angry, furious actually, at the stranger and his mistaken insinuation through this damned postcard, that all of these people didn’t give a toss about me; which was entirely untrue and of which I had daily proof of. I picked up the phone and dialed quickly, before the anger could dissipate, so I could tell him just how wrong he was.

 

“Hello Martin.” I was taken aback by the (by this point) somewhat familiar baritone voice. I did not expect to be greeted by my first name, so my ‘Who the hell do you think you are?!?’ died in my throat. Instead I stammered out:

 

“What… what the hell do you think you’re playing at?” Which sounded **FAR** less threatening than I had hoped.

 

“Are you ready to give it all up?”

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me well enough. I didn’t give you the postcard to mock you or who you are. It was a reference to your emotional state. How powerless you feel and how powerful we can make you. It takes but a little step, Martin.” He was talking in riddles but still remained captivating. “Martin. Do you have the courage to strip yourself to the very bones and then break them? To change yourself at a great price? Martin… do you want wings?”

 

I was dumbstruck. What in God’s name is this man proposing? Does he want me for an experiment? Genetic mutation? Mechanical engineering? 'The article!' He wasn't reading it for enjoyment. He was telling me there was SOME truth to that preposterous article. It took me several minutes of lingering silence, after which I realized he was patiently waiting for my answer.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Be at the airport today no later than 00:00.” It was just after 19:00. “They move swiftly. Hangar 172B. Don’t dally.” Click.

 

I did not wait around for long. I picked up the magazine to read the rest of the article found inside. It was just as ridiculous as they always seemed in these publications but… there was something more. There was something I couldn't point my finger at. Maybe it was the accounts made by witnesses, which seemed to contradict with what the "journalist" was trying to convince us of. Some claimed it had been a man, rather than a woman, who had made the leap; pointing at the billowing coat trailing after him (which seemed rather too manly and stiff), and the un-winged man's hair being short, though I can't see how they could have noticed the length of his hair at such a distance. The second part of the article dealt with the "couple's" wedding plans, which I found no interest in, being an obvious fabrication.

 

I packed a bag with anything and everything I could find since I had no idea what I was heading towards. I dashed out of my attic with my bag in hand, nearly ran over poor Shobna, one of the student flat sharers, who was climbing the stairs as she was making her way to her part of the house, while I made my way down. I ignored her questions as I dashed out of the house, only realizing later, on my drive to the airport, that I had not taken the opportunity to say Goodbye to her properly, and feeling a somewhat longing sickness that always comes when one is on the first few steps of making an abrupt change which takes you away from things you know and take comfort in.

 

I tried to keep my mind from thinking about what I was actually doing because I knew that the longer I lingered on what had been offered to me by the stranger from the bar, the more doubt would seep into my mind, the more likely it would become for me to simply turn my van around and forget the whole thing. I decided to make the leap, so to speak, and stick to it. Instead, I focused on how sweet Shobna had been when I caught Andrew cheating on me, and how, when I was standing speechless in front of his bed, he just mocked me with that girl, who seemed to have heard from him some embarrassing details about my life that I had foolishly shared with him. I put that thought away, deciding to forget all about it and not to wallow on past offences done to me. The stranger promised power and strength.

 

I made it to the hangar on foot, from the parking lot, and was met by a tall and striking man in his 40s’, standing by a black town car which was idling by just outside the door that led to the interior of the hangar. He seemed somewhat out of place but completely undisturbed by this fact; as if he wasn’t out of place at all, but rather his surroundings had encroached on his, very fitting, presence.

 

“Mr. Crieff. Do join me for a little chat before you take the stairs that lead you into the military plane that is waiting inside. I am sure my brother, for the sake of dramatic effect, neglected to mention the more practical aspects of this undertaking you have embarked upon.” Why can’t either of them speak in plain English? “At this moment, your belongings are being extracted from your… home…" he said with a certain amount of disdain, which I could not help feeling offended by, though I had bitched and moaned enough about my lodgings to turn it into an art form, "and put into storage. You are also being released from your rental agreement-“

 

“What?!? But… what if this doesn’t work out? Where will I live after?”

 

“Oh, don’t worry about that.”

 

“But…”

 

“I said that there is no need to worry about that, and I mean it Mr. Crieff.” He stared, daring me to question him on the subject again. “Now, as I was saying, your possessions will go into storage and will eventually be given to a family member whom you choose to name on this ‘Next-of-Kin Agreement’, should the worse-case scenario take place.”

 

“Is there… is there much fear of that happening?”

 

“Fear? Mr. Crieff, there is no place for fear. If you ‘fear’, then I suggest you take your repulsive satchel, enter that wreck you call a van, ('how could he have seen my van?!?') drive home and forget my brother ever met you.” I **WAS** afraid, but I was far more determined and not at all in the mood to be intimidated. I was tired of feeling helpless; tired of being nothing, of being no one, of not achieving anything; tired of a life of ‘stuff-moving’; tired of being me.

 

“I am **NOT AFRAID!”** the stranger smiled, a smile of contentment.

 

“But you will be. And that is more than fine. You may fear as much as you like, once you embark on this endeavour, but do not sully your splendid undertaking with fears which you bring with you, saddled with doubt and trepidations that have been cast on you by family, friends and foes. As for your former question, all I have to say is that, as you probably already know by now, or at least I hope you know, through years of experience gained by being in a state of constant wanting, is that anything that is worthy of your absolute desire, is worth dying for, in pursuit of its’ attainment. No one is free, so long as there is desire. Slavery and obsession; It’s all just words.

 

“Now, you take your things with you into this nice hangar, climb aboard the lovely plane that has been put at your disposal, get behind the controls (don’t worry, we already know what you are capable of, and the co-pilot is more than skilled as well) and you make your way to the location, the coordinates of which will be provided for you. We move swiftly.” I signed his damned agreement quickly and with a flourish, opened the hangar door, walked towards the plane, and entered the cockpit without uttering a single word back to him.

 

How was I to know that over half a day later, I would be descending towards a small, American army-base, located just on the outskirts of Xinjiang? The great desert between Tibet and Mongolia. I was given no further instructions by my co-pilot during or after the flight. I dared not speak a single word to him the whole flight for fear of bursting my bubble, or by causing something to happen that would indicate to me that I was plainly dreaming, like a unicorn flying by or Douglas appearing and giving me a compliment on my flying skills. My interaction with the unnamed stranger from the airport bar had ended with that one and only phone call, and the entire transaction with him had seemed entirely too dream-like, in any case; an impression aided by the alcohol fumes. On the other hand, the interaction with his brother, which had ended as soon as I left him by his town car, had seemed entirely too sobering.

 

Instead of spending my flight in idle chit-chat, or maybe assuaging my curiosity by directing poignant questions at my co-pilot, or, God forbid, playing word games with the ridiculously boring man, I spent my time between senseless joy at the images my mind was conjuring up, and mind-breaking horror at what it would entail, if indeed this was not a hoax to begin with.

 

I was almost pushed out by the co-pilot when we had finally landed, and found myself within the aforementioned army base. While there, I was greeted by a lovely looking young man called Henry Knight, who seemed to have been expecting me, though I shouldn’t have been surprised about that. He introduced himself as a liaison but would not comment what he was liaising or for whom. He was rather chatty but not forthcoming with any relevant information as to what I was actually doing there. I was given over, by him, a GPS, a coordinate to supply for it, plenty of water, basic food, a camel to carry it all, a rifle which looked ancient but still fired quite well, despite its’ aged appearance (I was allowed some time at the base’s firing range, to acclimate me to using it and to the idea of using it, before I set off on my journey), a very peculiar looking walking stick (slightly gnarled but made out of strong and polished wood, which reached just above my head, with dangling metal objects that appeared to be church incense burners and made a metallic clang as I walked, and, oddest of all features, had an amber stone the shape of a giant tear, which was half the size of my head, sitting right on top of it, and seemed to emit a small glow during the desert nights, as I later found out).

 

I was also given binoculars, some tools to build a fire with and, the most curious of all, an outfit that was supposed to make me blend-in **AND** stand-out: a desert robe the colours of crimson and imperial blue, which made walking in strong winds look poetically beautiful, with its’ extravagantly billowy movements, but rather difficult and counterproductive when a gust of wind made it more into a parachute than a desert garment. Little did I know, at that point, just how useful I would find the extra cloth, during the attack I was to fend off on the eighth night of my journey. Some parts of the excess material could be removed when walking in the heat of the desert and reattached during the cold nights, and I was shown how this can be achieved before and after putting it on. Lastly, after being allowed to practice shooting my rifle (which I found packed quite a kick when fired with), and being debriefed by Henry on what I should expect during my journey, I was supplied with a distress beacon, in case I found myself stranded, just before I was pointed towards the base’s exit and given a sincere “Good Luck” by Henry, as he smiled and waved me away, 36 hours after arriving there.

 

For the first couple of days I made quite a few wrong turns and found myself at the foot of impassable mountain ranges I would have to either climb (which I couldn’t, making them impassable) or skirt around. I found the days absolutely scorching and the nights utterly bone chilling, which did not surprise me in the least, after being briefed by Henry on desert conditions. The most unusual of occurrences, was the sound of beating wings throughout the night, which became louder and louder as my journey went on; a sound which kept me awake, in sheer terror, half the night. I lied to myself constantly; telling myself they were no more than nocturnal birds. I didn’t know whether to look for them out of a desire to dissipate my dread (or a hope to catch sight of what my mind had envisioned I would become at the end of whatever process I have taken upon myself, though I had been given no confirmation that I would ‘ **become** ’ anything), or cower in fear lest they, whatever ‘They’ were, attacked (or of having my hopes of seeing something unexplainable, be dashed completely by witnessing something utterly mundane).

 

I was tempted several times to use the distress beacon, thinking this was some elaborate hoax designed to humiliate random people, or test out a governmental theory, or maybe just some rich man’s sick and twisted game (S.R. Hadden, maybe… Sounds like his bag of tricks…). But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, because there was always hope; stupid, unsupportable by the facts, hope. And so I found myself walking on, my camel being the closest thing to a source of entertainment for me. I spent most of my time trying to rationalize my actions. Why I chose to keep going, despite the ridiculousness of what was hinted to be the main goal of this journey: Wings.

 

I walked onwards under yellow skies, with sandy wind blowing about me, cutting my face and making it feel raw, the ground becoming less sand and more drought-damaged earth.

 

Then, on the eighth night, it happened. I was startled awake by the sound of an approaching horse. Its’ hooves, clamoring closer and closer towards me and reverberating on the broken earth I was sleeping on, and on which I had my ear pressed while I was lying, in my feeble attempt to sleep. By some miracle, the fire I had built before retiring to my “bed”, had dwindled down slowly and was on its’ last embers, so the light was too faint to be spotted and recognized for what it was. I had the sudden image of being trampled by the fast approaching rider, and it gave me a sufficient enough scare to make me spring into action. I did not think I could hide well enough, and though the moon was not giving out strong enough light to make me easy to espy, I had a strong suspicion that I was the man he had come in search of. This thought was soon confirmed when the rider shot and killed my camel. I knew the animal only for a specific purpose, which was my conveyance, and the “acquaintance” with the poor creature was not a long one. Yet the brutality of the shooter’s action roused a fury I had not experienced before. I ran towards the innocent animal, still writhing on the barren earth. There was no time for me to comfort its’ passing, nor to commit its’ features to my memory so I could mourn it better when I did have the time. I pulled from the leather strap, which was binding it to the poor creature, my issued rifle; I squared my shoulders back, found my target, and… I was on the ground.

 

I had been wounded in the arm by a misfired bullet. The assassin, thinking he had hit his target, slowed his riding pace somewhat, no doubt to climb down and approach me on foot to make a coup de grâce. I waited, could hear my heartbeat picking up speed. I had fallen in such a way as to put the rifle directly under me and pointing out. I had to wait; to give the assassin the chance to get near enough so one shot hitting him would be enough, as I had no great confidence in my marksmanship. And yet, I couldn’t afford to have the assassin get near enough to make his final shot and so give me no chance to save myself. This was a situation I did not ever envision for me: to ascertain how close an enemy can get for you to efficiently kill them before they get near enough to kill you. I waited and decided that once he slows down considerably, it means he was close enough, as I did not trust my own ears to gage the distance of my would-be-killer by the sound of his steps. All this time, no doubt it can be attributed to the adrenaline rush, I felt no pain from the wound; just a slight discomfort. I slowly moved the rifle, the extra material hiding my movements very well, took aim at his head, choosing that spot as I was willing to risk no chances, and shot. His head splattered open and he was knocked back, the force of the shot actually lifting him a bit off the ground.

 

I jumped up in glee and only then took notice of the pain in my arm. It was excruciating, to say the least. I had never been severely wounded before; my fractured arm, during my childhood, being the worse I had ever experienced, and experienced so long ago it had lost all meaning. I know very little of anatomy but enough to ascertain the benefits of a strong and thick bandage. Here, the extra silk came in handy yet again. Strong material, it made for excellent medical supply. Looking at the damage around me with more open eyes, the approaching dawn shedding enough light to help me take in the horror of what had happened to me, I fell down and wept. I wept for myself, my pain, my camel, my “mission”… even for the poor bastard I had beheaded during the night. Murderer’s guilt, it’s called, and happens even to the best of them, from what I gather. Thoughts about what had been left behind, the innocent people that would miss him. I felt it all keenly.

 

When noon came, and my dejected state had left me long enough to make sense of my situation, I neared the camel again, which was beginning to smell even worse than it did alive; I reached out for the distress beacon, walked away to gather my wits about me and was on the point of pressing it when… nothing; there was nothing. I expected something to happen to make me change my mind; something that could be put in a book and be defined as the threshold of revelation for the main character; the ‘Aha’ moment. But there was nothing. There was only the realization that the only thing standing between me and aborting all my efforts was me; nothing and no one else. I took in my situation, stared at the lifeless corpses strewn about, made my way back again to my camel and chose from among the things it was carrying for me, the most important of my supplies: ‘If I survive, I’ll try to come back and reclaim what I have left behind.’ And so I pressed onwards.

 

Later that day, towards noon, after nine days and uncounted miles, I found myself staring from a distance, through my binoculars, at a black mountain. What was truly extraordinary wasn’t its’ colour, but the fact that it appeared to be made entirely of black quartz. And wedged into the very rock, halfway between the foot and the peak, was a temple, the colour of Amber. I was dumbstruck and still. I was afraid; truly and utterly afraid: afraid to hope; afraid to approach and have that hope dashed; afraid of having this turn out to be yet another time I have humiliated myself; afraid to get what I want, even. And so I stood there. I was sure I was where I was meant to be. Convinced further by the soft humming the amber stone was making. Eventually, I pressed onward, towards the broken stone steps I saw through my binoculars, pulled in and forward, towards the mountain, by untempered hope.


End file.
